oxygeniuses
by catopiuh
Summary: After two years of battling, talking, laughing; years of secrets slipping from ones' lips and into the others -- Roy's still not so sure how to understand a paradox. MarthxRoy


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Marth or Roy, Nintendo does.

Just little musings from a few weeks ago.

* * *

Marth is cold, yet so, so warm, and Roy frequently muses over his occupation as a walking paradox.

He's never been very observant, certainly not good at reading people, but his skull is infact not made out of steel and he would have to be _blind_ to see that there's something about the Prince that limits more than just his strained abilities of perception. It's there from the day they meet and the moment they lock eyes, and Roy's so overwhelmed with _woah ice_ that when the cold physically binds his metal-toed boots to the stadium floor he's not surprised in the slightest.

But he learns while his eyes are cold, his arms are so warm that he slides gladly into them to act as his own personal furnace.

"What are you doing out here?" he breathes against his cheek from behind, and Roy watches the warmcold breath fog out of the corner of his eye.

He's tempted to complain about the temperature. It makes him want to voice his annoyance to the world, to melt all the snow around him because it's so _blinding_ and _white_ that it tears right through his cerebrum and he thinks, _I'll sleep 'till winter's over_.

But he doesn't complain and he doesn't sleep, but just remains quiet, because the bluenette's hands are slipping over his stomach and safely around him, and he's back to base one because as much as he tries, he can't hate something that's so like Marth.

That's not to say Marth's anything like snow, really. Compared to Marth, _Roy_'s snow. Snow's way too simple -- and Roy's a pretty simple guy, he figures. He's straight-forward, honest, expressive. When he breathes, he breathes warm -- he doesn't flicker between temperatures and statuses and actions that the inconsistant Prince does.

Snow's nothing compared to a blizzard.

_You're cold_. The bluenette doesn't have to murmur it, but his lips graze his cheek and even though they don't form the words, Roy feels the accusation against his skin. A smirk twists his lips and after a moment of decision, of internal debate of just how to respond, he says aloud, "I was just thinking."

"In the snow?"

"Yeah," the redhead says, head tilting back against his chest.

"Hm," comes the soft, vague noise from the throat behind him, and a chin settles contently ontop of his head. "I see."

'I don't,' he's tempted to say.

After two years of battling, talking, laughing, of secrets slipping from ones' lips and into the others, Roy's still not so sure how to understand a paradox. He looks at him and knows more than he used to -- knows things that he's fairly certain no one else does. He knows that despite the azure hair, the cerulean eyes, the navy cloak, the teal tunic, so many shades of blue that adorn the Prince that he could very easily _drown in it_, he likes red best. He knows just how to, if he tries in_ just the right way_, to get the corners of those lips to twitch up in something of a smile -- and how those lips later taste against his or feel against his skin. He knows that Marth prefers to say 'I_ love you_' in their own language than in english -- knows that the little noise he makes just before comes takes his breath away, and knows that _everything_ that he _knows_ is like a secret between the two of them.

But after two years, he still loses himself in thoughts like these, because Marth is like a blizzard and while everything about it is cool and soft and beautiful all the little pieces come together in such a blur that Roy's careful to not fool himself that he can see through it all. Not just yet.

The yet rests assuredly on the tip of his mind, and it's hard to feel any sort of chaos or cold with Marth's tall back there to brace him from the wind.

The weather's long since stopped since he first came outside to think in the first place. It's not a blizzard; it's not even snowing. It's a universe of cool, calm, and the quiet puffs of their breath coloring the air. It's just -- winter.

Marth just holds him, before finally commenting softly, almost vacantly, "I thought you hated this weather."

Roy waits a beat, but has done enough thinking to be able to return, "No. Not quite."

When he turns to the bluenette, his lips are already tugged up into a very faint, very calm smile, and Roy's tempted to kiss them and whisper Marth, you're beautiful.

He doesn't resist.

There's a hand running gently through his hair and another pair of cool fingertips running along his cheeks when he pulls away, and he's satisfied, for while his thoughts seem silly and scattered, he feels the sentence got his point across.

Roy's never been the best with words or philosophy, so he decides to leave winter to be itself. He might not understand it, but in subzero temperatures, Marth's cool arms still manage to be a heater around him.

Marth is a chaos of cool, out-of-place warmth in the winter, and he'd have to be a fool to skip the season and miss it -- secretly, he hopes that maybe he's the oxymoron that put it there.


End file.
